


Coffee and Chemicals

by Sadiestic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadiestic/pseuds/Sadiestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has been trying to cope with his friends death for the past three years and yet has failed miserably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee and Chemicals

**Author's Note:**

> Another Post Reichenbach since I love to torture John
> 
> There will be at least five part to this... I dunno yet since it's not done

It had been three years since Sherlock had said his goodbyes and fell from the roof of St. Barts, leaving John to convert to his previous form. He was shattered: his limp returned, worse than before, and so did the nightmares. The faces of dead soldiers were replaced by the blood soaked body, limp on the ground. He tried to live a normal life, working at various hospitals and dating various women, but work was never enough to distract him and the women blurred together. Through everything he did to forget, he could not.. Those piercing eyes seared his soul and he could not forget those words.

“Goodbye John”

 

Those words echo now in John’s thoughts as he laid in bed, listening to the sounds of London. His door open, like it normally was, and the window cracked to allow a slight breeze. He was in Sherlock’s old room, everything as he left it. Nothing was touched, save for the bed and a dresser drawer, and dust had gathered on all the surfaces. Sherlock’s scent had long left the bedspread but John still pressed his face into the pillow, trying to catch even the slightest hint of it.

Coffee and chemicals. Not exactly a pleasant smell but John had learned to like it.

John’s eyes fell to the window and as the sun rose, so did he. He limped over to the dresser and opened the top drawer, making a slight disturbance in the layer of dust as he pulled it open, reaching in for his clothes. He despised himself for having a difficult time stepping into his trousers. He used the dresser to steady himself, leaving a hand print. His leg was giving him an unusual amount of trouble today and John was glad he decided to move into Sherlock’s room-he could not have climbed down the stairs from his previous.

He finally managed to pull on a pair of jeans and a knitted jumper. The jeans sagged a bit, he had lost weight since Sherlock left, and the jumper scratched uncomfortably against him. He leaned heavily on his cane as he made his way to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, John had hoped to see various experiments cluttering the shelves but there were none as usual. He sighed as he closed the fridge and put the kettle on, he was not hungry anyway. Besides, he thought, I ate... yesterday? He was't quite sure but he couldn't be bothered to care. Sitting at the empty table (Mrs. Hudson had hauled away the science equipment years ago) he sipped his tea, trying to read the paper, but he was distracted; his head was pounding and his leg was burning. John hobbled to the bathroom and grabbed the bottle on the counter and shook it. Empty. John walked back into the living room, cursing, and fell into his chair, pulling out his mobile to text Lestrade.

[There a chance you can bring me some pain medication? JW]

[I’ll try, tied up here]

John sighed, grateful that he had a great friends like Greg to rely on, they had kept in contact after Sherlock… he rose again to grab his tea from the table but as he did he became dizzy, perhaps from standing too quickly. The room spun around him as he tried to focus, throwing his balance. John took a step forward to steady himself but the movement focused too much on his bad leg and sent him to the ground, his head hitting the floor with enough force to knock him unconscious. His mobile slid out of reach as John cried out to the empty flat as he blacked out. 

When John opened his eyes he was in bed, the covers carefully placed on top of him. John moved to get up but a steady hand met his shoulder and gently pushed him down. “You need to rest,” a familiar voice came from beside the bed. John glanced over to double check, not trusting his ears. He looked over to the man sitting in a chair next to the bed, his heart pounding. “You’re suppose to be dead.”

“Am I now?” The man smirked, folding his hands and placing them on his lap. John’s brain did not want to process what was happening, “H-how?” The man’s smile widened, “Now that is a good story…” John searched for his mobile in his pockets. “No need, you dropped it when you fell,” he chuckled,” much like he did.” John tensed, not knowing what to do. He was trapped in his own flat-held by Jim Moriarty.


End file.
